


ASOS

by Jadesfire



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>We don't know who we are until we see what we can do</i> Martha Grimes</p>
<p>~~</p>
<p>After The Battle of New York, the whole world has seen what the Avengers can do. They've seen it in person, and on their TVs and in a thousand grainy clips taken on shaking cell phones. And now, the Avengers can see it too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ASOS

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yamx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yamx/gifts).



> Post-film fic. Written for Yamx for Avengers Fest 2013.

Despite what people seem to think, Steve is actually adjusting pretty well to the twenty-first century, all things considered. Okay, most cultural references go right over his head, but he can use a credit card, a cordless phone and turn his TV on after only minimal instruction from the nice SHIELD tech.

The thing is, the TV in his apartment is a small, simple affair, much more so than the ones he sees in the commercials, and definitely more basic than the giant black screen that's on the wall in Stark Tower. There might be a remote control somewhere, or it might operate on voice commands or perhaps even thoughts. Or maybe it's just mocking him.

"Cap? You in there?" The words are accompanied by a gentle knocking, and Steve turns to see Natasha leaning against the doorframe. She's wrapped in a large, fluffy white robe, her hair wet and the dark circles under her eyes standing out starkly against her pale skin. 

"I think so," he says, waving her in and only feeling slightly jealous. Figuring out the shower - which seems to have more dials and knobs than the helicarrier - had been second on his list after the TV. "Just trying to get this thing to work." He gestures towards the blank screen. "I can't find the remote." 

She smiles a little at that, stepping into the room, and Steve notices the soft, fluffy slippers that match her robe. He feels even more huge and lumbering than before, still covered in sweat and grime from the battle. If Natasha notices, she hides it as well as everything else. "There probably isn't one," she says. "JARVIS, you online?"

"Just about, Miss Romanov," says the ceiling, making Steve jump. Stark had mentioned JARVIS back on the Helicarrier, but Steve had thought he was some kind of computer expert sitting in a room here in the tower. Now, the mechanised voice makes him think again.

He glances at Natasha. "A computer?"

"Sort of. Artificial Intelligence. He runs the house and makes sure Stark doesn't blow himself up too often." She smiles a little at his obvious surprise. "Don't worry, he freaks out people from this decade too. Just ask him for whatever you need."

Feeling more than a little foolish, and fixing his eyes on the light fixture because it's better than nothing, Steve says, "I'd like to see the news coverage, please."

"Certainly, Captain Rogers."

The screen lights up, full of colour and sound, so bright and sharp that Steve takes half a step backwards. People are looking out at him from all over the screen, and from what seems like dozens of different images. Their voices overlap into a babble, and Steve hears words in French, Spanish, Chinese and half a dozen other languages layered over English in at least three different accents. 

Natasha snorts. "It might be an idea to be a little more specific." Before he can ask, she says, "JARVIS, give us live news coverage, filter for specific mention of Captain America, Iron Man, Hulk etc. No more than three at once." At Steve's raised eyebrow, she says, "Unlike Stark, those of us with adult attention spans find that two or three is more than enough."

The images seem to blink out of existence, returning with just three pictures, the sound turned down to a more tolerable level, giving Steve three reporter's eye views of Manhattan. The ground-level devastation is about as bad as he remembers, and there seem to be flashing lights everywhere. Not for the first time, he has a twinge of guilt that he's standing in a plush apartment with a luxury bathroom that he can't even work out how to use while the city below is a disaster zone.

"You did your part," Natasha says, her voice softer now. "Let someone else handle it for a while. They know what they're doing, and we'd just be in the way."

"We'll need to make an appearance later. They're already starting to ask questions." Steve nods to the image on the left, where a man in a suit who might as well have 'politician' tattooed on his forehead, is being asked who exactly is responsible both for the damage and the repairs.

In the middle, Steve's only a little surprised to see Stark fielding questions from about half a dozen reporters at once. Like Natasha, there are bruise-dark shadows under his eyes, as well as actual bruises coming up on his neck. Most of the blood has been cleaned up, though, leaving only a few angry-looking scratches on his face. He manages a few smiles for the camera, but his eyes are distant, not quite focussed on the people around him. Still, he keeps the words coming in a way that Steve isn't sure he could manage right now. 

"He's a lot like his father," he says, and senses as much as sees Natasha's flinch. 

"Yes, well, you might not want to say that to him for a while." When he frowns at her, she shrugs. "He's got enough to deal with at the moment. Bringing up the dead isn't going to help."

And if that's the whole truth, Steve will eat his cowl. But it's probably true enough, and he decides not to push it for now. A flash of movement draws his eye to the right-hand image, where the coverage has changed to show shaky, blurry, pre-recorded footage. It shows the blackness that had hovered above the city disappearing, and the tiny figure falling through just before the circles closed. There's a jerk so fast that it almost makes Steve motion sick, and the image moves down to catch a blur of movement crossing from right to left. It's difficult to interpret unless you know what happened, and it makes Steve's stomach flip over again. 

"So that's how he got down," Natasha says, so softly that Steve almost doesn't hear her. "I saw him fall, but-" she shakes her head. "Who would have thought?"

The image has focussed now, showing Hulk laying Iron Man gently on the ground, stepping back so Steve and Thor can get closer. It must have been taken by someone trapped in a nearby building, probably with a cellphone if the graininess of the image is anything to go by. They wasted no time in getting it to the TV networks, that's for sure.

Apparently Natasha had the same thought, because her smile has a cynical edge. "Bet you a dime to a dollar that Fury didn't lift a finger to censor that image. Every since the Harlem battle, he's been trying to get one over on Ross. Pictures like this don't do any harm at all on that front."

"I thought people just put these things online nowadays," Steve says, his brain just tired enough to make him feel stupid. "You mean Fury can stop them?"

The look Natasha gives him suggests that he's more stupid than he'd realised. 

"Oh," he says, running a hand over his face, and she seems to take pity on him.

"Why don't you get cleaned up, Cap? The press is already asking a lot of questions, and I don't know how Fury's going to play it, but in that outfit, it's not like you can pretend you weren't there." She hesitates, and they both look down at the torn, scraped and filthy uniform. "Stark's got a workshop downstairs that probably survive intact, I'm sure he can do something with it. I'll take it down." When Steve just stares at her, she says, more kindly now, "There'll be a robe in the bathroom."

RIght. On the screen in front of him, a Chitauri fires random shots inside an office, while the scrolling letters underneath give credit for the footage to James Knight, a Manhattan office worker. Everything on the screen is jerky, blurring in and out of focus. It seems that there's nothing these days that doesn't get filmed somehow, and he glances towards the ceiling again, at the cameras that he can't see but must be there. He's fairly sure Natasha is trying not to laugh at him at this point, and he's just about tired enough not to care.

Sighing, he heads towards the bathroom, starting to pull at his uniform jacket as he goes. "Fine," he says. "But this had better not end up on the internet as well."

~

The press conference must have been live, Natasha realises, because the workshop is dark as she enters, just enough lights coming on to stop her bumping into the bench or tripping over anything left on the floor. She's fairly sure that this will be Stark's first stop when he gets back to the Tower, so she puts Steve's uniform down on the nearest clear surface.

"JARVIS, please could you tell Mr Stark this is here when he gets back?" 

"Certainly, Miss Romanov."

It's strange, hearing her name from the AI, when last time she'd been near him, he'd been calling her 'Miss Rushman'. Then again, this whole situation has 'strange' stamped all over it. Nothing's ever going to be the same again. 

She lingers for a moment, looking around at the half-finished projects and tools lying haphazardly everywhere. This is Stark's private space, and she probably shouldn't' be looking too hard. She should be calling in to the Helicarrier, checking what Fury wants her to do next, seeing just how much of a public relations nightmare this is going to be. There's enough cellphone footage out there with her face on that it's going to make undercover missions a bitch in the future. She's going to have to grow her hair again. 

As she turns to leave, a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye makes her turn back, hand going for her gun automatically, every sense on alert. Although Stark Tower took a battering on the outside, inside, it's largely intact, but that doesn't mean the security system is still working, what with JARVIS having enough to deal with today. And there's plenty to steal in here.

"Who's there?" They will have seen her long ago, and hopefully if it's just a looter, they'll be startled enough not to put up a fight. Well, hopefully for their sake, because she is really not in the mood for this right now. 

"Don't shoot." 

She blinks in the semi-darkness. The voice is very familiar. "Bruce?"

"Please don't shoot." Stepping out from behind a column, Bruce holds up his hands. "I don't think Tony would appreciate the damage to his workshop."

"I'm sure he wouldn't." With care, Natasha takes her hand from her gun, pressing her fingers to the workbench in front of her and willing them to stop shaking. Apparently she's still in adrenaline overload. Rather than think about that, she keeps her eyes on Bruce's face. "What are you doing down here?"

"It's quiet." The smile is familiar, cautious, as though Bruce isn't quite sure whether or not it will be returned. "And I thought people might be looking for me." As he comes out of the shadows, Natasha sees that he's wearing a dark t-shirt and trousers that are just a little on the small side for him. She tilts her head.

"Are those Stark's clothes?"

"What? Oh. Yes?" Bruce rubs the back of his neck, obviously embarrassed, and the ridiculousness of it actually makes Natasha huff out a laugh.

"Well, that's one problem solved. Now I just have to find clothes for Captain America or he's going to have to do his first press conference in a monogrammed towelling robe."

That makes Bruce smile as well, shaking his head and pulling a chair closer to the workbench. "I don't think anything of Tony's will fit him." He frowns in thought. "What about you?"

"Pepper Potts has an excellent wardrobe here," she says, sitting down opposite him and resting her elbows on the bench. "I'm sure she'll understand."

"You borrowed someone else's jeans and you're still wearing your gun?"

Natasha glances down at the holster strapped to her thigh, the webbing covered in dirt and dust. The rest of her uniform had been as ruined as Steve's, although like him, she's hoping Stark will have something down here to take care of the worst of the damage. Going without it had been bad enough; going without her gun would have been worse than walking around naked. 

She shrugs. "Habit."

This seems to be enough of an answer for Bruce, because he nods, his eyes drifting away from her. "So," he says, in the tone of a man who doesn't actually want his question to be answered. "What happens now?"

"You mean 'how long do I have to make my escape?'" When he looks at her sharply, she manages something close to a smile. "It's fine, doc. No one's coming for you. Not this time. Fury's taken care of that?"

"What do you mean?" There's a deep suspicion in his voice, that she can't really blame him for, but she's too tired to really explain. 

"JARVIS?" she says instead. "Could you show us that clip again, please?"

"Of course, Miss Romanov."

God bless Stark for creating an AI with actual intelligence, because JARVIS doesn't bother asking what she means. Across the room, one of the monitors lights up, showing once again the shaky cell phone footage. 

Natasha doesn't need to watch it again, so she watches Bruce, sees the fear in his face change into curiosity, then understanding as Hulk lays Iron Man down with great care. Without needing to be asked, JARVIS repeats the clip, then repeats it again as Bruce gets out of his chair, going closer to the screen as though to get a better look. 

After the fourth time, he turns back to Natasha. "The news has got hold of this?" he asks, his voice shaking.

"It has." She leans forwards, making sure Bruce can see her face. "The thing is, before today, the public already knew Iron Man, and some of them had heard of the Hulk." Bruce flinches at the name, but she ignores it. "Now, what they know is that Iron Man saved the world, and that the Hulk saved Iron Man. That's going to be the story." She smiles a little tentatively, just as he had done, not knowing if it's going to be returned or not. "No one's going to try to lock you up again, not after this."

The smile isn't returned. Bruce turns from her, staring at the screen as though hypnotised, and for a moment, Natasha thinks that she should ask JARVIS to cut the feed. Then Bruce reaches behind himself blindly, finding the stool and pulling it towards him, never taking his eyes from the screen. 

She lets her smile grow into something more real, then gets to her feet, stretching a little. "I'll leave you to it," she says, not at all surprised when she doesn't get a reply. Moving silently, she slips out of the room, letting the door close soundlessly behind her.

~

When all the lights in the workshop come on at once, it startles Bruce so badly that he nearly falls off his stool.

"If you even think about going all big and green in here," Tony says from behind him, "I will hack the journal databases and change your name on every paper you have ever published to Bugs Bunny."

Still breathing a little hard, but with the rest of himself under control, Bruce turns slowly around. Tony is standing just inside the door, watching him carefully. 

No, Bruce realises after a moment. Tony is standing in the doorway itself, leaning against it.

"Are you okay?" Bruce asks, knowing it's a stupid question, and getting the twist of a smile it probably deserves.

"Nothing a few days' sleep and all the Xanax in the world can't solve." With obvious effort, Tony pushes himself upright and makes it as far as the nearest stool, which he sinks onto carefully. "What about you?"

"Oh, you know." Considering in the last ten hours, Bruce has had his whole world turned upside down a couple times, has willingly turned into his own worst nightmare and found out that he's the latest YouTube sensation, he's doing fairly well. Mostly, he doesn't feel much of anything, which suits him just fine right about now. "Catching up on the news."

Tony frowns a little, looking past him at the screen which is still showing that same clip, over and over. His face clears as he makes sense of it, and his eyes dart to Bruce and back to the screen. "I don't think they've caught my best side," he says, and his gaze drops to his folded hands resting in his lap. "Nice catch, by the way."

"I don't-" Bruce starts, breaking off when Tony looks up at him, meeting his eyes. There's a haunted look to them that Bruce knows too well from the mirror, of a man pushed too far all at once. He's used to needing things, needing to be grounded, to know he's useful, to have something to hold onto that can help to keep him sane. Maybe, just this once, he can be that for someone else. 

So instead of the half-dozen denials that he wants to say, the words that come out of his mouth are, "Any time."

That makes Tony smile, just a little, and there's an edge of smugness to it that Bruce finds reassuring. It's more like the Tony Stark he met on the helicarrier, who prodded and poked and teased and pushed, not just to see what would happen, but because he thought it was the right thing to do. 

"Told you you'd be suiting up too," he says. Enough of his self-possessed mask is back in place now for Bruce to look at him properly. 

Bruce manages a lopsided smile. "I still don't think I've got the hang of strutting," he says, turning so he can see the video clip again. "It's more like a lope."

This time, Tony laughs. "I guess that's something we'll have to work on."

For all that the idea sends a cold shiver down Bruce's spine, that he would even consider the possibility, he finds that at least part of him is not opposed to the idea. When he looks back at Tony, there's something distant in his expression again, as though his mind is drifting back to somewhere he doesn't want to be. If there's one thing Bruce has had to learn over the last few years, it's how to focus, how to keep his mind only where it is supposed to be, and nowhere else. 

So he pulls his stool over until he's on the opposite side of the bench to Tony, and gestures between them. "Natasha brought Steve's uniform down for repairs. Apparently she doesn't think that he should appear in front of the media without it."

"I'm sure it would get better ratings," Tony says, and while Bruce is sure the reply is automatic, it's reassuringly _Tony_ enough that he lets himself relax a little. Neither of them are fools enough to think that's the end of it, but for the time being, as Tony pulls the uniform over and starts tracing the rips and tears, maybe it's enough.

~

The screen is still showing the same clip long after Bruce has given up and gone to bed.

Lightweight.

Under the spotlight on his lab bench, he squints at the next tear in Cap's uniform, tracing the ragged edges as best he can with his now-blurry vision.

"JARVIS, blow this up for me, would you?" There's a tablet on the bench as well, so he pulls that closer as JARVIS uses a camera to give him a close-up. Much better. This one is definitely a bad tear, and there's some fabric missing. If he just glues it up, it's going to pull strangely and probably come apart again. He'll need to synthesise some more of the polymer to patch it properly. 

Of course, while he's doing that, he could just synthesise a new suit, but he has a feeling that's not going to do, not this time. Fury's been very careful about what footage has made it onto the news, about the message that the footage is sending. For all that he trusts Fury about as far as he can throw the Hulk, Tony understands this game well enough. Having Captain America turn up without a mark on him isn't going to cut it, not when the city is falling to pieces around him.

Gritting his teeth, Tony forces himself to concentrate as he pulls one thread free, loosening just enough to cut a length off. It takes a lot of concentration with his eyes stinging and hands shaking, but he does his best work under pressure. He's not going to think about things falling, about the distance from the sky to the ground, about how far a man can fall through a black hole, about-

"Hey, Stark."

With great care, Tony doesn't drop the tweezers and thread, laying them down on a slide for the scanner before glaring up at Clint Barton who seems to have materialised out of nowhere in front of him. 

"Do you always break into people's private workplaces unannounced? Oh, wait, sorry, silly question."

"You left the door open." 

If Tony was a better person, he'd take pity and stop glaring. Barton looks worse than Tony feels, all nervous tics and clenching fists. Because he really isn't that person, Tony narrows his eyes.

"Did you even glance at a doctor on your way here? Or a bed?"

"Says the man doing tailoring in the middle of the night."

With a glance at his tablet, Tony sees that Clint has a point. Half-past two in the morning. Huh. When did that happen?

Still, it's not the first time. "Couldn't sleep," he says shortly, picking up the slide and taking it over to the scanner for JARVIS. "J, tell me what's in that and make me a couple of meters, would you?"

"Certainly, sir. I estimate that the process will take around six hours. May I suggest you take the chance to rest in the meantime, sir?"

"You can suggest it." Turning back to Barton, Tony jerks his head and leads the way to the back of the workshop. There's a lot of downtime when he's making things, and he doesn't believe in wasting it. "So what _are_ you doing down here? I'm guessing it's not to make sure I get my beauty sleep."

"Not exactly." Barton's eyes widen a little at the fully-stocked bar and comfortable furniture back here, but he doesn't turn down the generous measure of whisky Tony offers him. Mind you, he doesn't drink it either, watching the liquid swirl around the tumbler for a long moment before he look ups again. "You can get into any computer in the world, right?"

The question is so unexpected that Tony's actually glad he's sitting down. He frowns. "Is this some kind of SHIELD strategy to get me to admit something? There's such a thing as entrapment, you know."

"That's not it." Barton has turned enough that he can see the screen still showing the news clip on a loop. He's apparently struggling with something, and it takes two go-arounds of blurry Hulk catching blurrier Iron Man before he finds his voice. "There's something I want to see."

"Try YouTube. Every idiot with a phone is the next great director nowadays."

"Something from SHIELD."

Ah. Tony's mouth seems to have put two and two together before his brain catches up, which happens when he's tired, and even he's a little surprised when he says, "You don't want to see that."

Barton's expression closes down, although there's faint colour in his cheeks now. "I haven't even-"

But Tony's brain is there now, and he knows his mouth was right. "You don't have to. You don't want to see it."

From the careful way Barton puts the glass down, Tony's fairly sure he's holding onto his temper by a thread. "You don't get to tell me what I do and don't want, Stark."

"True. But I do get to say whether or not I'll get it for you. Which I won't."

"It might not be what you think." Barton lifts his chin a little, bracing for a fight, and Tony sighs. He doesn't know the man well, not yet, but he's fairly sure you don't get to be one of the world's best shooters by being a pushover. Good, because Tony is too tired to pull his own punches, and even without the suit, he packs quite a wallop.

"You want to see him die."

It works. Barton blows out a long breath and drops into one of the comfy armchairs. As an afterthought, he leans forward, picks up his whisky, and tosses it back in one gulp. There are band-aids on all of his fingers, Tony notices absently, and when he'd leant back, there had been a flash of white on his upper arm under his sleeve. Like the rest of them, Barton seems to be mostly held together by bandages and will-power right now. When Tony gets this bad, he has JARVIS to make sure he doesn't actually do any lasting damage, and while he wouldn't volunteer for the role normally, someone needs to be Barton's brakes right now.

Of course, given Barton has ended up with Tony as his voice of reason, he may be in more trouble than either of them really appreciates.

"I need to know." The words seem to be dragged out of Barton, as though he isn't quite sure he wants to say them. 

"And you want me to hack SHIELD's database and lift the footage for you."

Putting words around it makes it more real. Tony could do it as well. Given the rest of the damage, he doubts anyone has bothered to remove JARVIS' uplink yet, and even if they did, once JARVIS has been in a system once, he can usually manage it again. But he's learned the hard way that being able to do something doesn't mean he should do it.

When he looks up, hope and denial are battling for control of Barton's expression. "Tasha's told me most of it, but it's just..." He trails off, the words obviously not working for him right now.

On the screen behind him, Tony watches the Hulk snatch him out of the air again. He doesn't remember it happening, doesn't remember anything before waking up on the New York sidewalk, staring at the sky. Seeing it should make it real, but when he tries, all it makes is a deeper darkness inside his own head.

Blinking, he forces his attention back to Clint. "No," he says, shaking his head, partly in denial, and partly to clear it, just a little. "You want to beat yourself up, go pick a fight with Natasha, get her to do it for you. Or maybe Thor. But I'm not going to help."

Something he's said has registered with Barton, Tony can see it, and he doesn't think it's his words of wisdom. Whatever it is though, it makes Barton get to his feet, a little unsteadily because a double whisky on top of major exhaustion will do that to a person, and wave vaguely in Tony's direction.

"You're right," he says. "I shouldn't have asked."

"Barton..."

"No, really, Stark, it's fine." It takes Barton a couple of goes to get around the chair, but he manages it and starts weaving his way to the door. "I'm fine," he says, as he knocks into a stool that goes rolling off into the wall. "I'll just..."

Tipping his head back, Tony sighs. "JARVIS, make sure he doesn't break anything, including himself would you?"

"Of course, sir."

"That's great, J. Great. I'm just going to sit here a while, okay?"

"I think that sounds like an excellent plan, sir. Shall I dim the lights?"

Tony stares at the ceiling. "Yeah. Why not?" He keeps his eyes open as the ceiling disappears into darkness, and tries not to think of black holes opening above him and swallowing him up.

~

It's not the first time Clint has woken up without knowing where he is, but normally it's not as comfortable as this. The pillows under his head as soft, and when he turns a little, he feels the pull of a blanket over his arms. It's dark, and as he blinks his eyes open he sees that it's because the blinds are all down, all around the room. After another minute of blinking, he recognises the room as the lounge in the apartment Stark said they could use. He'd come up here after seeing Stark, after asking his stupid question, although it's hard now to remember what he was planning to do.

A crack of light is creeping around the blinds, just enough to turn the furniture into dim shapes in the darkness, and it only takes Clint another moment to realise that either one of the chairs is a very strange shape, or someone is sitting in it.

"The man in the ceiling said you were looking for me."

It's funny, really. In the fight, Thor had just been another guy. Okay, he was a guy who could call lightning down from the sky, and with a hammer that could take out the side of a building, but he'd taken orders from Cap like the rest of them, had fought like he was one of them.

Here in the darkness, Clint hears the current of something more in Thor's voice, and it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Struggling to sit up, he forces his jumbled thoughts into some kind of order. He does vaguely remember asking JARVIS about Thor, and maybe sitting down to wait for him, which had made sense at the time. 

"Where's Loki?" he asks, his voice rasping. He'd blame the whisky, if he hadn't already been fairly out of it on exhaustion and adrenaline before he'd gone to see Stark. 

"Secure." 

Clint doesn't think the edge in Thor's voice is his imagination. It's not a tone that invites challenge or questions, even if Clint had been inclined to make any. 

"Good," he says. A deep breath, then another, helps to clear his head a little, and he carefully gets to his feet. His back cracks, every muscle protesting, as he slowly makes his way over to the window, rolling back the blinds.

When he turns back to get a look at Thor, he finds himself being watched in turn.

"Are you well, Clint Barton?" Thor says, more caution in his words this time. 

"Peachy. Nothing an ice bath and some brain bleach wouldn't solve." The reference makes Thor frown, and Clint waves a hand. "It's an expression. Means I wish I could forget the last three days ever happened."

"Do you?" 

It's a genuine question and deserves a genuine answer. "No." With care, Clint sinks back down onto the sofa, pushing the blanket aside. "It wouldn't help, would it?"

Thor doesn't answer this time, looking away and out of the window. While the world still feels blurry, Clint has remembered enough to know what he wanted last night, and while in the cold light of day it might not be such a good idea, he's not entirely sure it's a bad one. 

"I wanted to ask you something, actually."

That brings Thor's head around, sharp eyes focusing on Clint. "About Loki."

It doesn't need to be a question, because what else could it be? Slowly, Clint nods. "In a way. I tried to ask Stark, but- Well. He said he wouldn't help. And I don't really blame him. But I need to know." He meets Thor's gaze steadily, sure of this part at least. 

Just as with Stark, he sees the moment when Thor works it out, the brief flinch and the way his eyes drift away again. "Even for all the battle that followed, I have long dwelled on that moment. It is customary amongst my people to tell great stories of battles won, and of those lost, that in the telling, they may never be forgotten."

Clint's throat is so tight that he doesn't know how he gets the words out as he says, "That's a good custom."

"It is. And it is of great comfort to the teller, as well as the listener." Thor's eyes come back to him, focused and steady again. "Therefore I will tell you this story, Clint Barton, of the bravery of the Son of Coul, and of his death."

At the back of his mind, Clint remembers something about Viking legends, about warriors and battles and glory, and he lets the thought go as he settles back in the sofa and listens to Thor speak. After a little while longer, he closes his eyes, the image wrapping around his mind, as clear and sharp as any video could ever be, and he lets the words sink into him.

~

It is hard, being away from home at a time like this. The lack is not just in his father's counsel or his mother's comfort, but the company of his friends, being amongst friends who would understand and share his grief in equal measure.

Not that those around him are short of grief at this time. He would hesitate as yet to call them friends. Comrades, perhaps. Sharers in strife and hardship and struggle, facing the new day with brave faces, and smiles that are both strained and genuine. 

He had sat with Clint for some time after his tale was done, the two of them sharing the silence as they had shared the roar of battle the day before. For all that it had been a hard story to tell, he thinks that the comfort it had brought to them both was probably worth the effort. He does not think any of these people are the type to shrink from difficulties, and he would not insult Clint's grief by trying to shield him.

Nonetheless, Thor is grateful when they are joined by the Captain, although his manner of dress is not one Thor expected.

Seeing their puzzled looks, the Captain looks down and blushes. "Tony said he'd ask someone to bring some clothes by in my size."

"No, it's good," Clint says, waving a hand. "Just don't let him take any pictures of you and put them on internet. Captain America in Tony Stark's towelling robe would go viral in seconds."

It is clear from the Captain's expression that the words mean as little to him as they do Thor, but the sense is plain enough, and the Captain's blush deepens. 

"He didn't tell me it had a monogram," he mutters, turning the collar over to hide the embroidered letters. Clint's amused look breaks into a genuine smile, and Thor is pleased enough by it to smile himself. "I'm never going to live this down."

"Yeah, it's not really your colour." Clint waves for the Captain to join them. "You get any sleep?"

The Captain wraps the robe carefully around him before sitting in the chair opposite Thor's. "Some. You?"

"Enough that someone put a blankie on me, which is always nice."

"I believe that was the Lady Natasha," Thor says, leaning down to pick up the cloth. The fabric is soft, catching on the callouses and scratches on his hand and leaving tufts of pink fluff behind. "She said you would be grateful for it when you did not wake up freezing."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"Sounds like she's insulting my air conditioning."

All heads turn to the doorway, where Stark is standing with a pot in one hand and a mug in the other. In another moment, a familiar aroma fills the air and Thor raises his eyebrows.

"Is that coffee?"

"I should have known that's one earth custom you'd know about." Coming over to join them, Stark leans against the end of the sofa, as though unsure whether or not to sit. "Natasha and Bruce are bringing some cups up with them." He holds the pot up higher as Barton looks up at it. "You can all pretend you're civilised beings and drink from them not the pot." His words only induce Barton to make a more earnest grab for the pot, and Stark lifts it up and away, bringing his other hand down to balance. The opportunity is too good to ignore, so Thor leans over, stretching out and neatly plucking the cup from Stark's hand while his attention is elsewhere. 

"Hey!"

Both Clint and Stark are attempting to appear annoyed, while the Captain is openly laughing from his seat across the room. 

"It is a poor warrior indeed who leaves his vittles unguarded," Thor says, as haughtily as he can manage. The attempt is worth it to see the Captain's cheeks redden from humour rather than embarrassment, and Stark's eyes widen in indignation. 

"Poor warrior, is it?" he says, pushing Clint away with his now free hand. "We'll see if you're so smug when it's time for breakfast."

"There's food?" 

Thor takes a sip of his stolen coffee, letting the conversation of the other men ebb and flow around him for a moment. It is a bare echo of the camaraderie he is used to, and the coffee is a poor substitute for the mead of Asgard, but it is familiar still, the relief of warriors whose battle is done for now. 

Movement by the door catches his attention, and he turns again to see the Lady Natasha and Doctor Banner carefully bringing in trays that seem to be laden with food. The good Doctor has several cups swinging from his fingers as well, and Clint goes over to help him. Stark follows, still talking as he pours Natasha and Banner their coffees first, pointedly ignoring Clint's irritated looks. 

"And then they saved the world."

Thor turns, surprised that the Captain is still in his seat rather than going over to join the others. Then the words sink in.

"No, my friend," Thor says, smiling. "This is what they do after they save the world. This is now the time for celebrations and feasting."

"It's soon going to be the time for questions and consequences." It is easy to forget that this man who knows as little of the world around him as Thor does is yet a seasoned warrior. Like Thor, he knows that there is more to the battle than the winning of it.

"True," Thor says. "But the time of battle has passed, and the time of which you speak has yet to come. And we will have little enough time in between to enjoy the moment." Because there will be question on Asgard. And there will be consequences, and there will be justice. 

Something of the darkness in his heart must show on his face, because the Captain gets to his feet. "You're right," he says. "We'll deal with the consequences later."

"Later," Thor echoes, taking the outstretched hand and letting the Captain pull him to his feet. "There is just one thing I think you should deal with now, though," he says as they go over to join the others. 

"What's that?" The Captain frowns and gives him a curious look, just as there is a familiar clicking sound from the other side of the room.

Thor grins. "I believe your robe has become unfastened again."

~

  
_Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle_  
Plato


End file.
